


five gifts given and one returned

by esteefee



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: 5 Things, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:04:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>what it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five gifts given and one returned

**Author's Note:**

> For sga_flashfic's 2010 Amnesty's 5 Things Challenge.

1.

When John talks to her, it isn’t in words, more in concepts, and he always feels a little stupid doing it. At the same time, he knows there’s an artificial intelligence of some kind in there. Not one that controls the City’s systems, but one that underlies the superstructure. It’s a base system of some kind, a subroutine, nothing terribly smart, but it’s powerful, and so when John asks her for something, he doesn’t use words, which are too complex, but simple concepts, and usually just one:

_Protect._

Usually when he’s around Rodney.

:::

2.

“It’s not cake when it contains a vegetable,” Rodney says, his forehead crinkling into a frown.

“No, it’s zucchini bread. Or, what passes for zucchini. But it’s good! And good for ya.” John leans against Rodney’s desk and waves the dinner plate enticingly. “C’mon, you’ve been stuck in here for two days now living off Pop-Tarts and Dr. Pepper.”

“God bless the _Daedalus,"_ Rodney says. “Last year was pure torture for me—”

“Oh, it was the missing junk food that got to you? Not the fact we were on the edge of nowhere without heavy artillery or back-up and with hive ships about to kick our asses?”

Rodney gives him an arch look. “The lack of Cheetos had a minor, but significant role in my misery.”

Rolling his eyes, John drops the plate next to Rodney’s keyboard. “Well, try eating a vegetable disguised as cake. I hear it really moves the mail.”

:::

3.

In a river sandbar on P8X-090 while babysitting a bunch of zoologists, John finds a tiny puddle of liquid metal that behaves much like mercury, except it’s colored like brass. It has to be a naturally occurring element, one they’ve never seen before.

John steals a sample container from one of the scientists and coaxes as much of the stuff as he can inside.

He thinks Rodney will totally freak. Also, maybe he’ll want to watch _T2_ tonight.

:::

4.

The P-90 is getting heavier, but John keeps it aimed high, sweeping in controlled bursts as the Wraith drones keep coming in waves. They fall like dominoes, but he keeps firing until they finish twitching, and then changes position, his left hand pressed against his right shoulder to keep the bleeding slowed. There are more coming, and stun blasts shake the trees behind him as he flees.

_“Colonel? Colonel, what is your situation?”_

“I think I’ve drawn most of them. You should be good to move.”

_“Oh, that’s just brilliant.”_

“Just follow the plan, Rodney,” John says, and cuts his radio off. He can’t afford distraction right now. A blast hits a branch beside his head and shatters it into shrapnel, sending splinters into his right cheek. John spins and fires, hitting one of the bad mojo guys, not a drone, and he holds the trigger down and lifts the sight so he can aim right at the motherfucker’s head.

Marilyn Manson drops with satisfying suddenness, but John doesn’t savor the moment, just ducks and runs some more, making as much noise as he can, but describing a slow arc back to the cloaked jumper.

Three encounters later he goes silent and pulls his LSD. He makes it back to the jumper in just under fifty minutes, only ten minutes late.

“You stupid son of a bitch!” Rodney beans him with an MRE. Fortunately, it’s still sealed.

John turns to close the hatch, raising his middle finger at the same time. “I’m only ten minutes late.”

“Yes, well, ten minutes that seemed very—Teyla and Ronon were concerned about you.”

“Ronon’s asleep!” He is. Ronon is crashed out on the jumper bench with his iPod on, dead to the world. John points carelessly, forgetting his arm, and winces.

“Oh, great. You’re hurt.”

“‘S nothing. Zigged when I should have zagged. Got cut by a rock. You’re the one with the busted ankle, remember? Broken in three places, you said.” John smirks at him.

“Allow me to wrap your arm, John,” Teyla says, giving Rodney a look that John appreciates, since it stops him mid-sputter. “And, yes, I was a little concerned while you were conducting your, what did you call it, Rodney?”

“Asinine.”

“—diversionary maneuver.” She smiles at John with a few too many teeth showing. “I’m glad to see you returned safely.”

“Do something about that cut on his face, too,” Rodney mutters after a second. And then to John, “Thanks.”

“For what?” John’s looking intently at Teyla’s deft hands so he doesn’t have to see the painfully sincere expression he knows will be accompanying that voice. God, he hates that expression. It kills him every time.

“Just—my ankle really wasn’t up to—Ronon practically had to carry me, and the sheer numbers—”

“Hey, teamwork—we got it done,” John cuts him off hastily.

Teyla gives John a rueful, gentle look that he almost can’t stand as much as Rodney’s sincerity. Thank God Ronon is still blasting _Thin Lizzy_ and isn't hearing this.

No one says anything else, though, and after Teyla’s done patching him up, John flies them all home.

:::

5.

He finds it on P1N-265 before the ghost of Kolya turns up to torture him. It just looks like a giant, slightly cloudy, really shiny piece of quartz, but he knows it’s not, and it seems like the ultimate joke that here in Pegasus there are diamonds just lying around on the ground.

John knows he should do something about it; report it in the AAR, or turn it in to Geology or something, but after his experience on the planet he’s just a little bit bitter and, anyway, it’s his. He found it. And God knows what the IOA would do—turn the planet into a strip mine?

So he doesn’t tell anyone. He just leaves it knocking around his junk drawer with his busted clips and his gun oil and the keys to the Harley he no longer owns, and every so often takes it out and marvels at it, rolling it around in his hand, and laughs at his life a little, because he’s the richest man in the galaxy. Really.

Except, well, after John escapes from the way-way future having learned some stuff, and Rodney comes back from Earth after some snazzy conference he attended with Jennifer, it becomes really obvious they’re a good match.

So, John decides to give it to Rodney.

There’s a moment, only a second, really, when he has to fight himself on it, but that bird has flown. Or maybe never really got its wings.

When he hands it over, Rodney’s eyes flicker once in total disinterest, like John’s handed him a piece of coal, and then they go wide-wide, drunken-sky-blue, and Rodney actually laughs in disbelief, gripping John’s shoulder with his free hand to shake him.

“Where on Earth did you—scratch that, obviously not Earth—what _planet_ —no, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. Why are you showing me this? You aren’t seriously turning it over to the Geology goons?”

“Jesus, no. It’s for you. For, you know—” John casually scratches his jaw, “—in case you pop the question. You can take it back to Earth and get it cut for her. Of course you’ll have to be discreet...”

Rodney is staring at him with his mouth dropped open. He looks a little like a guppy, and John would laugh if his gut didn’t hurt.

Shaking his head, Rodney says, his voice a little queer, “You’re giving this to me.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Seriously.”

“Christ, it’s not like it cost me anything. I _found_ it. On the ground. It’s been sitting in my junk drawer—”

“John. This is worth—” Rodney waves his hands, and then looks horrified when he nearly fumbles the stone, “God, who knows? It’s the size of a small egg! It’s probably bigger than the Star of Africa. Do you have any idea how much this is worth?”

John is starting to get pissed. “Fuck, Rodney, I don’t _know_ , and—”

“I mean, we’re probably talking a hundred million—”

“—I don’t give a shit!”

They stare at each other for a really long time. Too long, and John looks away finally, saying, “Look, I have money, okay? What I didn’t have, before I came here? Was you—you guys. You, and Teyla, and Ford, and Ronon. And now Jennifer, too, okay? She’s with you. So give her the Star of Africa, Rodney. And make her happy.”

And then he gets the hell out of there before either of them can say something stupid.

:::

1.

Rodney doesn’t give it to her. John keeps waiting, but he never sees it on her—which isn’t surprising, because the damned thing is huge, and she’s a doctor, so it’d be impractical, but Rodney could have had it cut down, or used part of it, or something.

But John doesn’t know much about diamonds. He really came close to screwing up with Nancy’s, and it was Mitch Phillips who rescued him from that mess by dragging him to DeBoer’s and pointing at five possibles and then refusing to let John pick from any others.

Mitch had terrible taste in shirts, but great taste in rings.

They’re on Earth plenty long enough for Rodney to deal with the diamond, but nothing happens, and then John gets sent to the fucking Pentagon for a while, which he fucking hates.

He’s in uniform all the time, his hair regulation short, and his feet hurt from his shiny shoes.

On the plus side, the being in uniform means he gets laid a lot—he’d forgotten how much women like the ribbons.

Their smiles in the bars are whiskey-sharp, and he doesn’t feel guilty, because it’s a military town and he tells them up front he’s only on TAD, but at the same time he feels lost without the City and his team. After a couple of weeks he gives up on the bars and spends his evenings on the phone bugging Rodney until he gets hung up on.

It takes longer and longer each time, and he starts to wonder why Rodney isn’t with Jennifer. So he calls Chuck instead and gets him to patch the comm through to Ronon.

_“They broke up.”_

“What? _Why?_ ”

_“I don’t know. Something about a ring. Look, it’s none of my business.”_

“Yeah, okay. Sorry. You doing okay?”

_“I’m good.”_

“How’s Amelia?”

_“We broke up, too.”_

“Shit! How come?”

_”None of your business, Sheppard.”_

“Right, right. Sorry. Uh. So, how’s school?”

_"It’s going good. Should have my thesis done in a couple of months. You gonna come to my defense?”_

“Wouldn’t miss it, buddy. You know me and the historic influences of mixed-gender military forces.”

_“Right. You better not be late.”_

“Beer’s on me after.”

:::

There are only so many briefings and closed-door hearings a guy can take before he blows his stack. John discovers, though, he’s getting pretty good at the politics game; surprisingly, all he has to do is think about his dad’s dinner parties, and he’s back in the mind-set of fucking with all the people his dad wanted most to impress. Only in this case, John’s fucking with them to get them to do what he wants.

Which is: send them all the fuck _home_.

On the IOC side of town, Woolsey’s been doing much the same thing, only with Chinese, German and French translators. The British don’t need a translation, but they do need a dose of Woolsey’s much nicer manners.

Woolsey meets John for lunch every day and even accepts the offer of a stout. But his tie stays as crisply knotted as ever, and John never sees him sweat.

They fly home after a month with the IOC and the President’s promises in their pockets.

:::

“Where have you _been_!” Rodney fairly drags John from the gate room and down the hall. “I need you in the Chair, like, three weeks ago.”

“Could I put down my gear and get out of my freakin’ uniform first?”

“No, no, and absolutely not!”

Except, Rodney hits the wrong quadrant on the map, somehow, because they end up in the corridor leading to John’s quarters, yet Rodney is still hauling him by one arm, John’s duffle swinging from his other hand.

“Rodney?”

“It was a ruse,” Rodney says, palming open the door. “Otherwise, people would have had you tied up with administrativa the rest of the day, and we have things of importance to discuss.” He pulls out John’s rolling chair and shoves John into it, then stops suddenly and stares down at him, hands on his hips.

“Whatever did you do to your hair?”

John runs a hand self-consciously over the bristly softness of it. It still freaks him out a little, because it reminds him of his pre-deployment years, when he was a nugget still in training and couldn’t afford to step over the line.

“O’Neill made me cut it.” John grimaces. “And shut up. You can give me all the shit you want about it later. What’s the big news? Is this about the move? Is something gonna hold us back?”

Rodney is still staring at him, his mouth doing that guppy thing.

“McKay.”

“What? N-no.” He waves dismissive fingers. “This isn’t—we’re fine. We’re set to go in two weeks.”

“Then what?”

“Can I touch it?”

“Eh?”

Rodney rolls his eyes. “Please. Your hair. Can I touch it?”

But he doesn’t wait for John’s stunned denial, he just walks up and does it, like it’s no big deal at all—runs his hand over the top once, lightly, and then again, this time raking with his fingertips, making considering noises in his throat.

It’s plain weird.

“Rodney.” Also, it’s making John a little crazy.

“Hmm?”

“Rodney...” Jesus, the shivers won’t stop running down John’s spine.

“What?”

John’s eyes close involuntarily and his neck goes loose. He knows he should pull himself out of this...this pleasure-induced coma he’s in, but it’s fingers, it’s _Rodney’s_ fingers, digging into his scalp, and—

“Huh.”

John’s eyes snap open. He knows that noise, that sound that means Rodney’s about to discover how to re-route the power from the drive pods to the weapons system, or turn lead into a ZPM or something. John jerks his head away, but it’s way too fucking late, because Rodney is looking down at him with a lazy-lidded smile.

“I like it,” he says lightly after a moment. “Feels nice. Although you look...younger. I’m not sure the marines will be sufficiently cowed.”

John feels like he just dodged a bullet. He clears his throat. “You had something you were going to tell me before?”

“Oh, right. Riiiight. Just adding in a final, critical data point. Getting everything lined up into neat, tidy equations. This, for example.” Rodney reaches into his pocket and holds out the rough, glittering stone from P1N-265. “Recognize it?”

“Well, sure.”

Rodney hums thoughtfully and places it carefully on John’s desk. “It occurred to me, after you gave me this absurd gift, that it was just the final, fantastic example in a long line of ridiculously caring gestures on your part. And that I’m just an idiot who'd been neatly fooled by your impermeable facade of detachment.”

John makes a talking motion with his hand. “Use smaller words. Mongo no hear so good.”

“Case in point.”

“Look. I’ve been wearing these shoes for a month now and I’m pretty sure my blisters have blisters, so...” He stands up but all of a sudden Rodney is _right there_ , only half a foot separating them. John still hasn't recovered from the scalp massage or Rodney's almost-leer, and John can smell his cologne, can practically taste the heat from Rodney's pale pink skin.

John tries to shuffle a step backward, but his leg bumps into the chair.

“Rodney...?” John licks his lips.

Rodney is staring at him intently, his hands brushing the front of John’s shirt. “I thought I had it; I mean, I was pretty sure, John, but not really, not entirely, until just now. Until I touched you just now...” He raises his hand, and suddenly John’s breath just stops.

Everything stops.

Then Rodney’s fingers touch his cheek, his thumb brushing John’s lips. It can’t be mistaken for anything but a come on, and the shock of certainty nearly takes John’s knees out.

“You’re serious,” he whispers, and puts his hands on Rodney’s waist to steady himself. When Rodney tilts his head with a little smile, John's body finally catches up, and he leans in and does his best to kiss the grin right from his mouth.

Rodney tastes like nutmeg from that coffee-like drink the Athosians discovered. John kind of hates the stuff, but on Rodney it tastes good, and John could drink it forever, sucking on Rodney’s tongue, nipping his lips, at the same time turning him and shoving him toward his undersized bed in the corner.

He kisses Rodney until Rodney is biting at him and pulling at John’s tie, trying to yank it over his head and almost taking his face off, and then by unspoken agreement they both retire to their respective corners to strip, the job made impossibly more difficult for John by virtue of the fact he’s got his eyes on Rodney the entire time. Because John can’t believe this is happening, but if it is, he’s not letting a moment of it get missed by the shutter-frames clicking in his mind.

“Can I fuck you?” John whispers harshly when they’re naked and his cock is already getting sore from being pressed repeatedly against the sweaty skin of Rodney’s soft belly. “God, I just—I really want to fuck you, Rodney.”

“I don’t know.” Rodney looks up; his hair is crazy wild, sticking up in tufts above his forehead, and he’s got two high spots of color on his cheeks.

“You—you don’t know.” John settles to the side.

“I mean, what’ll you give me?”

John stares in shock for a split second and then leans over and bites Rodney’s left nipple. Hard.

“Yow-ch!”

“I’ll give you a hundred million—how’s that?”

Rodney grins. “That sounds...reasonable.”

“Great. Turn over, Julia.”

John wants to laugh at how quickly Rodney complies, but then he takes in the view. It’s a really, really good view.

“God, Rodney—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Rodney flaps a hand at him, “Perfection. Now get on with it. I can feel my value depreciating.”

“Not a chance,” John says in a low voice, and covers Rodney’s body with his own, letting his cock settle between Rodney’s cheeks just to feel it, just to have the sensation of Rodney completely under him from chin to calves and touching everywhere in between. Rodney squirms a little, and it makes it all that much better.

“Okay, okay, already,” John says when Rodney sighs in exasperation, and gets with the program.

If he had ever allowed himself the thought of this—if he’d been willing to risk shattering his everyday calm by indulging himself with fantasizing about it—he would have thought Rodney would be combative and ornery and demanding in bed. Not that John would have minded, but he never would have expected this warm, pliant, sensual thing beneath him now, thrilling to John’s touch, arching against his fingers and then rolling back to take his cock.

“God, yeah, Rodney, use my cock, use it—” John is barely conscious of what he’s saying, only that seeing Rodney like this, abandoning himself to his own pleasure, is likely to make John’s heart push the needle right up against the peg.

And still, in spite of John's mindless babbling, Rodney is riding his cock, pumping his hips back onto it like he’s got an itch only John can scratch.

“Please, Rodney, please, you gotta—” John slides his hand up Rodney’s ribs and palms his nipples, then runs it down to where his cock is slapping his belly and traps it, pressing his thumb under the crown.

Rodney throws his head back and groans out loud, “Yes, oh, yes,” but doesn’t make a sound when he starts to come, just pants and jerks in John’s arms.

John keeps moving gently, thrusting in and out, hanging on, hanging on just barely, because he doesn’t want to miss any of it. Finally, Rodney sags down to the mattress with a sigh, his head turned on the pillow, and John settles deeper between his legs and starts to thrust again, fucking Rodney sweet and slow because he’s so close now, it won’t take much at all, just the warm, well-fucked, trembling heat of Rodney’s body and the soft whispers of encouragement and Rodney’s flushed, pleasure-dazed smile to push John right into oblivion.

“Eventually, of course, even a hundred million dollar whore likes to go freshen up afterward.”

John groans and eases away, just barely remembering to take the condom with him. “Didn't what's-his-face get a kiss at least?”

Rodney chews his lip as he pretends to ponder the question, and John growls and bites Rodney’s shoulder.

“We have to talk about this biting thing.” But Rodney gives in and kisses him, lazy and really kinda sweet.

“Comes with the package,” John says, resting his forehead against Rodney’s.

“The package. Yes. About the package.” Rodney has hardly lifted his head from the pillow; John feels a little bit proud that he wasted Rodney so totally. He’s seen the guy go forty-eight hours without sleep.

“Hmm? What package?”

“Are you dim? You’re the package, remember?”

“Oh.” John starts to scratch the back of his neck, but Rodney’s fingers are suddenly there. John stifles a moan of gratitude.

“This package deal. Obviously it comes with perks, such as blowjobs, ass-fucking, kisses and the like—”

John’s face has been growing steadily hotter. Also, his dick is twitching.

“Well, yeah.”

“And then there’s the massive wealth factor.”

“Goes without saying.”

“And?”

“That not enough for you? Jeez, you’re pretty hard to please, McKay.”

“Well, that’s undoubtedly true, as we both know.” Rodney is smiling at him expectantly now, his eyes unbearably fond.

But there’s something hard in John’s chest that won’t break loose. Even though he wants to give Rodney what he’s asking for, he still has to say, “How come you didn’t do it? I mean, how come you didn’t make her a ring out of it?”

Rodney stares at him thoughtfully for a moment, then says, “Well, when it came to it...I didn’t _want_ to cut it down. I was holding it in my hand and I realized: something that big, that rough and perfect—it would have been a crime to change it. If I did anything to ruin it, I wouldn't have been able to forgive myself, really.” He looks down. “That’s when I knew what I felt.”

John’s pulse is going crazy, so he takes a slow breath, then says carefully, “Yeah, the package, it comes with other stuff.” He closes his eyes. “There’s other things in there, too. You might have to...you might have to dig ‘em out. But they’re there.” He risks a glance.

“Well, I do have the gift of persistence,” Rodney says with a lopsided smile.

“Oh, it’s a _gift_ all right.”

There might have been a pillow fight then. And later, there might’ve been blowjobs, and more ass-fucking. But the important thing is, John gets his rock back, and he sticks it in the junk drawer next to his old gun clips and his cleaning oil and the keys to his old Harley.

And the wrapped first edition of Stephen Hawking’s _A Brief History of Time_ he finds for Rodney’s birthday.

It’s as good a place to hide it as any.

  
_End._

**Author's Note:**

> Here is an icon crysothemis made of John with a buzz cut: [](http://www.gatefic.com/component/rsform/form/18-2011-gatefic-awards-sg-a-slash-a-multiples)
> 
> "Turn over, Julia," is a reference to Julia Roberts in _Pretty Woman_.


End file.
